A mist hangs over the bridge, ghosting the town.

This morning I forget how to seize the day,

reinserting ink cartridges slowly five times

until the printer display window reads 100% normal

and the church bells start ringing in Epiphany

marking an end to Christmas festivities.

It’s a national holiday but the supermarkets stay open

so the woman can still choose –

maybe this morning Hungarian maybe later Slovak,

how long she will wait by the shopping trolley bays

depends entirely on how many shoppers forget

to retrieve their 10 cent deposits. I think of her

as I photograph the contents of a rubbish bin:

one snowed over empty champagne bottle,

one spent fire cracker,

as I walk the bridge every day and call it art,

as the printer reassures me everything is 100% normal.